


the chances are so small

by heyshalina



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Curses, Derek's Struggle Is Real, Gen, M/M, Magic, Mario Kart, Narcolepsy, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Witches, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyshalina/pseuds/heyshalina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No!” Stiles shouts, and he has to cover his forehead with his hand for a second. “She inflicted you with the curse of the struggle!”<br/>“The struggle.” Derek deadpans, bowl in hand.<br/>“And it’s real.”<br/>.<br/>Derek and Stiles take a weekend trip to backwoods of Oregon to deal with a witch. The witch kind of deals with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the chances are so small

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyWaywardWeb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWaywardWeb/gifts).



> This has been for the forever time.
> 
> For my darling MyWaywardWeb, who has been appropriately excited about this for a long time. This has become way more outrageous because of such excitement.
> 
> Sorry, I fooled you all, this is actually just the true story of how the Camaro met its untimely death.
> 
> The title is from "Odds Are" by Barenaked Ladies.

Isaac gropes for his phone on the coffee table from his prone position on the floor, groaning unnecessarily. The cellular device continues to mock his entire existence as it ceaselessly rings and vibrates on the wood table. After a minute of blindly slamming his palm on the table, the phone fumbles into Isaac’s hand, and he brings it up to slap against his cheek. With sleepy eyes, he holds it out for a second, blinking, and then presses the talk button before bringing it back to his ear.

“Ugh.”

“Isaac?” Derek’s voice comes through. Isaac doesn’t snap to attention, or even open his eyes from when he had closed them again. He drops his head back down onto his throw pillow on the floor. He is so far past that shit.

“Ugh.”

“What’re you–I called Boyd.”

“This is Boyd’s phone,” Isaac drawls. “I answered it. That’s how phones work.”

“I. Okay, well. Where’s Boyd?” Derek’s sigh has a growl in it. Isaac scowls without opening his eyes. Derek had woken _him_ up.

Isaac heaves himself onto an elbow and cracks open his sleep-covered eyes, peering over the coffee table at the now empty couch that Boyd and Erica had fallen asleep on, tangled together. Huh. “I dunno.”

“You don’t know.”

Isaac rubs his eye with the back of his hand. “Nope.”

Derek huffs, and yes, that _definitely_ has a growl of frustration in it. “Isaac–We need help.”

“Who?”

“Stiles and I. We’re…something happened. There was a witch, and she did something, we don’t know what exactly. The Camaro’s shot.”

“Not the Camaro,” Isaac yawns.

“Isaac.”

“You are quite literally in Oregon.”

“Oh my God, get up off of your lazy ass!” Stiles’ voice rings through the speaker, shrill and loud. “It’s cold my head hurts and I want to get out of here.”

“Where’s Boyd?” Derek asks, calmer.

“What’s wrong with me?”

“So much,” Stiles shouts.

“Boyd is more responsible.”

Isaac shrugs. Fair.

“You’re on his phone. Can you get him?”

Isaac sits up fully and looks around the living room of the apartment, scanning for life. His eyes fall on the closed bedroom door, Erica’s cheetah print bra on the floor in front of it. He coughs. “No.”

“Then you have to come get us.”

“Derek, I’m already third wheeling so much right now–”

“Jesus, just shut up and go get Scott,” Stiles snaps. “He wasn’t answering his phone when we called him first and I’m so sick of your shit.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll get Scott.” Isaac mutters, dragging himself to his feet and kicking around for his shoes. 

“Come quickly,” Derek orders. “The witch is still out there.”

“‘Kay.”

“We need reinforcements!” Stiles yells. “And if you don’t stop and get me curly fries, so help me, Lahey, I will shank you.”

.

The witch had been for real, which is honestly a bit of a turn of events for them. They had been expecting the low-grade, college student level witches they were used to dealing with, so Derek had just taken Stiles to deal with the problem (“Come on, Derek, I’m a valuable asset! I am low level magic right here, like a solid 4 magic, we’ll fight fire with a match flame and your grumpy wolf man claws.”). It hadn’t even _been_ a real problem, just a witch causing mayhem up north and rumors of her moving into Beacon Hills territory, and life had been a little boring, so they chased after her, thinking it’d be an entertaining weekend trip.

Sure.

Then the witch turned out to be this thirty-something year old queen of evil and _badassery_ , and the battle in the middle of the woods had turned sour very quickly. They had known that she had been legit when she had skipped past the evil monologue and had said a single one liner about how fun it would be to fuck with their lives before she started shooting colorful lasers of doom at their faces. Derek had been struck in the chest with something lurid orange, and while he had charged at her valiantly Stiles had been struck in the head with a blast of dark blue that effectively knocked him out; Derek had managed to battle tango with her for long enough that she became bored with him and his fangs and left. Stiles roused easily enough, although Derek made him remain sitting, and Derek called Scott, and then Boyd–well, Isaac–when Scott didn’t answer.

“They said they’ll be here by midday,” Derek announces to Stiles, who had been quiet during the whole conversation with Scott after Isaac had gone and woken him up. “Until then, we should get back to the Camaro at least.”

“Nuh,” Stiles murmurs sleepily. He rubs his face with his hand and Derek steps closer. “I just want a pillow fort. A big fort of pillows. A cuddle fort.”

“You are on the ground,” Derek says. “Come on, you’re going to freeze.”

“Dream ruiner,” Stiles moans, but held out his hand for Derek to grasp. “Why is it cold? Cold should be illegal.”

“We’re in Oregon.”

“I don’t like it here.”

“You just don’t like it because you got hit in the head with magic,” Derek snorts, prodding Stiles forward toward the direction of their busted car (the witch had thrown green laser lights at it in flight, like a bitch). 

“Yeah, I got hit in the head with magic!” Stiles snaps. “You got hit, too. I think they were spells. But nothing happened. Something could happen. I don’t want boils, or a third head, or genital malfunctions.”

“I think we’ll be fine,” Derek says. “We’ll wait it out and see.”

“I could _die_ by then,” Stiles bursts out dramatically, tripping over a tree root. “You could turn into a blueberry.”

“I’m not going to turn into a blueberry.”

“Just because you said that it’s going to happen. I can see it happening now. Your transformation. Your new life as a fruit is just beginning.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek grumbles, tugging him along. He nears the Camaro and pushes Stiles toward the passenger door, making him catch himself on the hood.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles retorts, pulling open the door and falling inside. “Say that all you want, Violet Beauregard, but I’ll be the one laughing later.”

“I don’t hear you laughing now,” Derek pulls at the driver’s side door, but it doesn’t open. Derek yanks a little harder, but it’s locked. He scowls and takes out the keys again to unlock it; they fumble out of his hands and into the long grass. He curses and bends over to pick them up, but on the way back up he bangs his elbow on the door handle. Derek glares at Stiles, who is in quiet hysterics. “Stop laughing.”

“Never,” Stiles giggles as Derek slides into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut. Derek growls when the door closes on his coat, and he has to open it again to get it loose, sending his best death glare at a laughing Stiles.

“I am going to poison your curly fries,” Derek mutters, and Stiles yawns, still chuckling.

“Won’t work,” he murmurs. “I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder.”

Derek blinks. “I–” he turns to retort, but sees Stiles’ eyes closed, mouth slightly open in sleep. “Okay.”

Eventually Derek drifts off into sleep, content and warm with both Stiles’ and his body heat warming up the car in the cool summer night air. He rests calmly, not dreaming, or maybe dreaming vaguely and fondly, before he is startled awake. His eyes latch onto where his hand had clutched Stiles’ wrist, the boy’s pointer finger still outstretched from when he had poked Derek’s arm. They share eye contact for a moment before a shiver runs through Stiles and Derek’s eyes wander to the dark outside, the beginnings of dawn just starting to emerge from between the trees.

“Hi,” Stiles rasps, throat thick.

“What time is it?” Derek asks, letting go of Stiles’ wrist and trying to not let it bother him when Stiles begins to rub it absentmindedly. 

“Uh.” Stiles struggles to pull his cell phone out of his pocket. “Like 4:30. I couldn’t sleep.”

“What are you talking about, you were out like a light,” Derek mutters, dragging a hand down the roughness of his stubble. 

Stiles shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. And I’m hungry now. Let’s emerge from our little man cave and find some scones.”

“I’m surprised by your motivation,” Derek replies, opening the car door without complaint and stretching. “You typically live a life of atrophy.”

“And it’s a life that serves me well,” Stiles gets out of the car and leans on a tree. “But I’ve been craving a good scone. Statistics say that there are two-thirds of a Starbucks per capita in this forsaken state, so we’re bound to find one soon enough.”

“I don’t want to know what goes on in that brain of yours,” Derek mutters, starting to walk through the woods and locking the car behind him. Stiles follows closely.

“My brain is a fascinating world that people should pay to want to investigate,” Stiles says. “When are Scott and the scarf monster going to get here? Where is here, again? How are we going to catch the bitchy witchy that totally kicked our asses?”

“When will you stop asking questions?” Derek growls. Sighs. He definitely sighs. “Scott and Isaac are probably leaving soon. Knowing them, they’ll probably stop at IHOP, and then at Dominos, and Isaac will want to watch a movie but Scott won’t let him, so they’ll be here after noon.”

“That is quite literally far too long.”

Derek doesn’t respond, but instead keeps walking in the direction of the road. They emerge from the foliage onto pavement and Stiles arranges some sticks in a stupid formation to mark the place where the Camaro lies somehow in the depths of the forest. Derek had just driven it in there. They have to walk a while longer before they even spot a sign; Derek looks up and sees that the next major town is about ten miles away. He curses under his breath.

Derek looks up to meet Stiles’ eyes. Stiles blinks. “Carry me?”

Derek keeps walking.

.

They walk for about an hour and a half before they come to a drive-by little town with a gas station and a closed pool pub. Stiles goes inside the gas station to go to the bathroom, whining all the way, while Derek pulls out his phone to call Scott and Isaac. He tries four times before he resigns himself to the fact that he has no service and shoves the phone back in his pocket.

“Just my luck,” he mutters.

Stiles walks out of the gas station with bags of chips in his hands and a package of gummy worms lodged between his teeth. He hands Derek a bag of spicy nacho Doritos, walking with him back toward the main road.

“They were out of cool ranch,” he explains begrudgingly. Derek snorts. Figures.

“We have to keep going down the road, see if I can get a signal to call Scott,” Derek says.

“Your carrier’s shitty, lemme try mine,” Stiles snarks, and Derek lets him. Stiles fumbles with his phone as they walk past the closed bar, but then suddenly stops. Derek keeps walking a few steps before he turns to face Stiles, who is standing straight, looking down at where he has dropped his cell phone on the hard tar, eyelids blinking languidly.

“Stiles?” Derek asks.

“Huh,” Stiles murmurs. He blinks one more time before his body just goes down like someone has cut his strings, _bam._ Derek lunges forward to catch him, sliding down with Stiles onto the ground and leaning against the outer wall of the pub. For a second, the only sound is of Derek’s frantic breathing.

“Stiles,” Derek says, looking down at his lax face. Stiles’ eyes are closed, the right eyelid open just a sliver, so Derek can just barely see the white of Stiles’ rolled back eye. His mouth is relaxed and gaping. Derek looks at the Doritos spilling out over the ground and swallows the baseball stuck in his throat. “Stiles. God.” What were you supposed to say during this kind of situation? “...Wake up.”

The words come out of Derek’s mouth and turn around to slap him in the face. Derek squints his eyes, adjusting Stiles in his grip and listening to the boy’s breath. It’s deep. Even.

“Holy shit, you’re sleeping,” Derek says incredulously as the fact dawns on him. “What the hell, Stiles?”

Derek stares threateningly at Stiles’ _sleeping_ form, seriously, until Stiles’ eyes begin to flutter as he resurfaces. Stiles blinks a few times, making weird sounds in the back of his throat, before he locks eyes with Derek and freezes.

“What did I miss?” Stiles asks slowly. “Did we fall in love and you rescued me from a dragon?”

“No.”

“There’s no other explanation for the position I’m currently being held in–”

“You fell asleep.” 

Stiles tenses even more in their awkward position. “I’m sorry?”

“You just fucking fell asleep, Stiles,” Derek barks at him, like it was _his_ fault. “You were standing there, and then you just _fell asleep and fell down_.”

Stiles purses his lips. “Well, I gotta say, that doesn’t happen very often.”

“Very often?”

“At all. Ever.”

“You could have hit your head, you idiot,” Derek snaps, gesturing at the hard concrete.

“Oh my God, you are totally Mama Bear-ing me right now, stop it–”

“You could have warned me–”

“I had no idea it was going to happen–”

“I’m not very keen on cleaning up your blood from public places before I have my morning coffee, Stiles–”

“This place has seen its fair share of blood, it’s not like–geez, let me up!”

Stiles lurches out of their position on the concrete, wavering to a standing position and dusting himself off. Derek slowly gets into a stable standing position, watching Stiles as he snatches his opened bag of Doritos off of the ground and stares at Derek staring at him. “What do you want me to say, Derek?”

“Don’t do it again.”

Stiles scoffs. “Sure, I promise not to pass out against my will ever again, master.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles smirks after Derek, sliding next to him as he storms by. “C’mon, babe, you know I hate it when we fight.”

“Shut _up_ , Stiles,” Derek bites.

“I don’t know why you’re so ups–”

“Just don’t do it again.”

“I can’t promise that, not when the witch did something–” Stiles’ mouth closes abruptly, and only opens again to lick his lips nervously. “I mean, maybe it was a one-time thing. I didn’t sleep a lot, and it’s early. Do you think she did something?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, his mouth dry.

“She hit you too.”

“I don’t know.”

Stiles stills, bending down to gingerly pick up his cell phone off of the ground. Derek stares at the ground as Stiles rips open his gummy worm package and sticks one in his mouth.

“We should go,” Stiles says.

“I know.”

They find a car behind the abandoned billiards bar that has an actual legit layer of dust on it, and Stiles slides into the driver’s seat, stuffing all his stuff on the dash. Derek begrudgingly places himself in the passenger seat, muttering under his breath. “I should drive.”

“You should shut your little werewolf whipper-snapper,” Stiles replies, bending over to hotwire the car. “Me drivey. You navigatey. You don’t askey why and how I know how to start this car.”

“You taught Isaac,” Derek says. “I already knew you could.”

“That little shit, he swore he wouldn’t tell!” Stiles side-glances at Derek, who looks skeptical. “What? Isaac and I bond.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s just get the hell out of Oregon already.”

Stiles drives them a few miles down the road before Derek opens his phone to try calling again. This time he has three bars. He quickly taps Scott’s name and holds the phone to his ear. It rings three times before there’s the sound of the other side picking up.

“Oh thank God,” Derek breathes.

“Der’k?” a voice rings through the receiver, muffled by the distant sounds of chewing.

“Isaac?” Derek asks, instantly exasperated. “Where’s Scott?”

“We’ve been over this before.”

“Do you feel the need to just answer everyone’s phones…are you _eating_?”

There’s a guilt-ridden pause. “We’re at IHOP.”

“Jesus–” Derek facepalms. It’s a sight to see. “Wh–I–I’m not even surprised. I knew it. Can I speak to Scott?”

“Oh Alpha, my Alpha–”

“Isaac, this is an emergency.”

Isaac sighs, but then hands over the phone to Scott, who, predictably, is also chewing.

“What is this, pancake time?” Derek asks.

“All times are pancake times,” Stiles chimes in.

“Sorry, Derek,” Scott mutters. “We got hungry. We’re on our way.”

“You better be, we have a bit of a situation.” Derek grumbles.

“What kind of situation?” Scott asks. “I mean, other than the whole ‘the Camaro died and went to muscle car heaven’ thing.”

“May it rest in possible pieces,” Stiles says. Derek glares at him.

“The witch…she might have done something, we don’t know, but she might…she hit Stiles.”

“She hit you too!” Stiles interjects. “Way to leave out that precious little tidbit.”

“Stiles?” Scott asks, voice strained and suddenly panicked. Did they forget to leave that out before? “Is he okay?”

“Ask him yourself,” Derek says. He puts the phone on speaker. Isaac’s purposeful chonking noises become more prominent.

“Hi, bro!” Stiles calls out.

“Stiles! Are you okay?”

“Jim Dandy, dude,” Stiles replies, banking their stolen car around a curve. “Kind of want to go home. Could use a scone. Bring me pancakes, will you?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, sure thing. We’ll leave in like two minutes, we’re like halfway there.”

“And tell Isaac to stop being an annoying six year old, seriously, man, that’s disgusting.”

Derek scoffs, and then suddenly the car jerks, tiles screeching and drowning out Isaac’s “ _just like looking at your face_ ”. Derek snaps his neck to the side and sees Stiles folded over the steering wheel, his cheek squished into the hard circle and his mouth wide open in sleep. Derek swears vehemently and reaches out to pull the car back onto the road. He yanks the wheel sharply, sending Stiles flopping into the driver’s side door as he turns the vehicle away from an Oregonian tree right in their path. Derek wraps a hand around Stiles’ thigh and heaves it away from him and off the gas pedal. The car begins to slow and Derek finagles it toward the side of the road, breathing rapidly and harshly. Once the car stops Derek falls against the dashboard, resting his forehead on the backs of his arms, breathing.

“Derek? Derek! Derek, what happened, Stiles, what–”

“Just give me a fucking minute,” Derek wheezes. He picks up the phone off of the car floor and holds it in hands. “I’ll call you back.”

“Der–”

Derek hangs up the phone and continues to breathe. After a little while Stiles moans, bringing a hand up to his face pressed against the car window. He smacks his lips before opening his eyes, blinking quickly.

“What happened?” He asks, voice impossibly groggy. Derek raises his head up and glares at him.

“I am driving.” He growls.

.

They do indeed find a Starbucks once they reach the next town. Stiles is very excited. 

Turns out not only does Derek have bad taste in women, but he also has shitty taste in cars to steal, because the rust bucket is rumbling and bucking under his hands when they roll into the parking lot of one of the Starbucks the state of Oregon has to offer. Stiles rubs his hands together and pulls himself from the car, kicking his legs around. Derek runs a hand over his stubble and wrangles out his wallet.

“As much as it feels like a terrible idea,” Derek grumbles. “We’re getting you coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.”

Stiles had apparently waited until Derek pulled over their car for a stretch break to pass out again, falling into the Oregon foliage and making Derek awkwardly manhandle him back into the car when he didn’t wake up for a seemingly extended period of time. Derek is sick of it. Sick of it.

“No one’s let me have the espresso shot before,” Stiles grins menacingly. “Not even the baristas. Baristos. Baristbros.”

“This is a special occasion,” Derek says, opening the door. “Try not to get hooked.”

“No promises, Wolfman.” Stiles snickers. “You’re my enabler now. It’s all on you.”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Derek deadpans, handing Stiles his wallet and walking toward the back. “Don’t break anything.”

“Have fun peeing!”

Derek breathes, reaching the bathroom and quickly pulling himself inside. It’s one of those single-stall bathrooms, something he’d never seen at a Starbucks before, but the town is significantly smaller than Beacon Hills. He clicks the lock and moves to the toilet.

So he listens to the Taylor Swift in the background as he peed, so what? ...and he thinks it’s catchy, what of it?

Derek washes his hands and pulls out his phone. He doesn’t want to go that much farther from where the Camaro lies nestled in the woods, and he also doesn’t want to be in a place too conspicuous, in case the witch decides to come mess with them again. He doubts it, but doesn’t want to risk it. Derek decides that Scott and Isaac are probably two-thirds of the way there. They could wait it out in the town they were in until they showed up.

He shoves his phone back in his pocket, wraps his hand around the door handle, and pulls.

And pulls.

And pulls again.

“You have to be kidding me.” Derek yanks at the door, but it’s shut tight. He growls, done with the universe’s shit, and pulls on it harder, with some werewolf strength kicked in there.

Nothing.

What kind of Starbucks has an _industrial_ bathroom door resistant to alpha werewolf strength?

“This is just not fair,” Derek whispers, clonking his forehead on the _wood_ of the door. “What did I do?”

And then, because the universe isn’t quite done fucking with him, someone screams.

“Oh my god! This kid, he just _fainted_!”

“Is he okay?”

“Should we call 911?”

“Is anybody a doctor?”

“Somebody get a doctor!”

“Oh, God,” Derek whines. “ _Stiles_.”

He backs up and slams his foot into the door, pushing with all his werewolf might. As one last fuck you by the door, it flies open easily, crashing against the wall and falling off its hinges. Derek emerges from the bathroom just to come face to face with a small boy around seven years old, staring at him with eyes wide and mouth agape. He reminds him of Stiles.

_God, Stiles_.

_God, people._

“You…” the boy stutters. “You’re totally Batman.”

Derek stares at him, blinks, says “yeah, sure” and walks away. He’s not _that_ great of a person.

Stiles is down in the middle of the goddamn Starbucks, face smushed against the tile. His extra large drink and scone are still on the counter and Derek’s wallet is on the floor, a crumpled up twenty in Stiles’ lax hand. Derek makes a beeline for him, pushing customers out of the way. He swipes up his wallet and shoves it into his pocket. He kneels down and gathers Stiles into his arms, letting his head nestle in the crook between his neck and his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” he pushes out upon other peoples’ protests and unneeded medical two cents. “This is, he is…mine. Uh. It’s okay, he just…he has narcolepsy. He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t call an ambulance?” A woman asks. She probably just wants to help, but she immediately grates on Derek’s nerves. “I think he might have hit his head.”

“No, thank you, he’ll be fine.” Derek slides the twenty out of Stiles’ hand and places it on the counter, taking Stiles’ coffee and scone in one hand. “Uh. Thanks. We’re gonna go now.”

To say he _flees_ from the coffee shop would be too extreme. More like he walks briskly, or asserts his forward movement, leaving the customers and baristas behind with open jaws and confused faces. Yeah. That’s it.

Derek casts a forlorn look to their stolen ( _borrowed, Derek. Borrowed_ ) car and the open gummy worm packet on the dash before turning and walking with Stiles in his arms across the parking lot, over a median, across another parking lot, and behind the abandoned Blockbuster building. He slides down against the back of the wall, still holding Stiles, and breathes, listening intently. Once he’s sure that no one followed them from the Starbucks (he probably freaked them all out too much, but he’s not holding any of them to not call the police on him for busting their bathroom door and then stealing an unconscious teenage boy) he lays Stiles down on the ground so that his head is resting in his lap. Derek stares at the tree line a few meters in front of them and thinks about just running into the forest and running the whole way back to Beacon Hills, letting his shirt soak through with sweat and wolfing out, howling to release his frustration. He wishes Stiles could run with him, just for the sake of _convenience_ if nothing else, because he hates this town, hates cars, hates Starbucks, hates his incapability and hates sitting in an alleyway behind the worst DVD store in the history of ever (they never had the movies he wanted and lost the copy of _Jumanji_ he returned and charged him four times). He hates that Stiles keeps falling _asleep_ , and–

And Stiles is groaning.

And drooling into his leg, oh geez.

“You’re disgusting,” Derek says, and when did his fingers start running themselves through Stiles’ recently grown-out hair? He jerks his hand away, and then crosses his arms to maintain his frustrated air and reputation as the town grump. If you can’t fix it, stick with it.

Stiles flutters open his eyes and stares up at Derek, shifting on Derek’s lap slightly. “This is becoming a theme.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s more like a motif.”

“Have I ever told you that I hate you?” Stiles moans, throwing an arm over his face. His fingers bump Derek’s hip and Derek feels goosebumps spread across his arms. He crosses them even tighter. “Because I hate you.”

“I just saved you from a crowd of twenty hipsters and soccer moms,” Derek replies. “And suffered a good dose of first and second-hand embarrassment.”

“For me?” Stiles fake-swoons. “Aw, I’m sorry you had to face the human race, I know you hate doing that.”

Derek scoffs, lightly biffing Stiles upside the head and making his hair messed up. It looked like ridiculous bedhead ( ~~ sex hair what? ~~ ). “I got you coffee.”

“You rescued my caffeine from the depths of antisocial, introvert hell?” Stiles gasps, making grabby hands and making no move whatsoever to get up from his position. “My savior! Give it here.”

Derek hands the extra large cup to Stiles, and watches as Stiles begins to try to drink it and not spill it all over his neck and chest.

“Do you want to sit up?” Derek asks, his lip turning up on one side in amusement.

“What are you, a crazy person?” Stiles huffs, drinking more of his coffee, which is probably lukewarm and gross by now, with all the chocolate crap he put in it at the bottom, but whatever. “I have mastered the art of ingesting substances while horizontal. My Twilight Zone marathons have prepared me for this day.”

Derek watches, bemused, as Stiles practically downs the whole cup in one go. He deposits the empty cup beside him with a _clunk_ and burps a little, covering his mouth with the back of his hand (can burps be cute? Is that a thing?). They stay silent for a near record of four minutes in a period where both of them are conscious and not keeping quiet for fear of their lives. It’s Stiles who breaks it. Predictably.

“This is becoming kind of a problem.” He says, voice low.

“You think?”

“What are we supposed to do?” Stiles asks, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m kind of afraid to get out from behind this–where are we?”

“Behind an empty Blockbuster.”

“Figures.” Stiles snorts. “Where’s Harold?”

“Who the hell is Harold?” Derek crinkles his nose. Stiles boops it.

“The _car_ , silly. I named it.”

“Before or after you nearly crashed it?”

“That is entirely irrelevant and highly classified to the likes of you.”

Stiles shifts so that he’s sideways and reaches across Derek’s lap to dig into his pants pocket, um, _excuse you_ , and pulls out his cell phone, fiddling with it in one hand and picking at the fray on the seam of one of Derek’s pant legs with the other. “I’m calling Scott.”

“We just called him a couple hours ago.”

“They could be lost!” Stiles claims. “They haven’t come yet and I for one do not trust Isaac’s sense of direction at all.”

Derek shrugs, and Stiles presses on Scott’s name, letting it ring. He puts it on speaker phone and places the phone on his chest.

“Yo.”

“Isaac, what the hell.” Stiles groans.

“You know, I came out here to have a good time and–”

“No memes for you.” Stiles spits. “Where’s Scott.”

“Hi Stiles!” Scott calls, and yes, he’s driving, okay, Isaac gets a pass this time. “You’re not dead!”

“Not yet!” Stiles cheers back. Derek rolls his eyes. “Where are you guys? We need a getaway car here.”

“Uh…we’re coming.” Scott says, voice laced with guilt. Still.

“You’re coming.” Derek deadpans.

“Yeah, um, well…”

“We stopped at Subway.” Isaac explains. “And the sandwich girl was really hot.”

“You…” Derek closes his eyes. He has to breathe.

“I can’t believe you.” Stiles covers his forehead with his hand. “We could have been dying, and you flirted with the Subway girl.”

“I mean, it was a really small town Subway, there weren’t any other customers, I wasn’t _inconveniencing_ anyone–” 

“You were inconveniencing me!” Derek snaps, and Stiles side-eyes him. “Us. Inconveniencing us.”

“But I got her number, I count this as a win–”

“I will call her and tell her you have mouth herpes and a dreary disposition that drowns puppies on sight.” Stiles threatens. Maybe promises. “Get here. I want to go home.”

“Stiles, what happened last time you called? There were a lot of noises, and I’ve never heard Derek curse that much, and then he said he’d call us back, _which he didn’t_ ,” Scott accuses. Derek shrugs. He’s not that sorry. “I tried to call back, but he didn’t answer. Are you guys okay?”

“Yeah, Der-Bear was driving, that’s why he didn’t pick up, sorry bud.” Stiles answers.

“Thank god, your driving is terrible,” Isaac snarks. Excuse him, Stiles’ driving skills under normal circumstances were _prime_.

“I thought you were driving?” Scott asks.

“We had a little bit of role reversal, brought on by the fact that we seem to have been cursed by the witch and have no idea how to fix it.”

“How did she curse you?” Scott is so concerned, it’s so cute.

“Stiles likes to go nappy-nappy when he doesn’t want to,” Stiles says, voice dripping in sarcasm and venom. “It’s horribly annoying.”

“ _You_ think it’s annoying,” Derek huffs, incredulous. “You don’t have to lug your unconscious body around.”

“She cursed you with narcolepsy?” Isaac snorts. “How lame.”

“Better than being cursed with the inability to wear anything but ugly scarves!”

“Everybody thinks your fashion sense is awful except you, Stilinski.”

“Douchebag syndrome!”

“What did she curse Derek with?” Scott asks, sniffling. Or maybe he was drinking soda from a straw. Was Isaac holding up the cup for him, that’s way too domestic to be legal.

“We’re still trying to figure that out.” Derek sighs. Stiles picks at Derek’s seam a little more aggressively.

“Is it a curse of horrible social skills?” Isaac asks. “Because I’m sorry to break it to you, but I think that’s just innate.”

“Dude, a scone!” Stiles cries, reaching over Derek again and grabbing the scone he’d forgotten in its package on the ground. “Score, I’d forgotten I bought this.”

“I want a scone,” they hear Isaac mumble.

“Too bad, you got Subway, no scones for you!” Stiles bursts out, wiggling around and nearly sending the phone flying. Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and forces him to stay still, which earns him a petulant glare, but whatever. “…My scone.”

“You can keep your scone.” Derek assures. “I went through hell to get that for you, you’re going to eat it.”

“Oh yeah, Derek had to face the human race today,” Stiles tells the phone. “It was very scary for everyone involved.”

“Did you scare away the baristas?” Isaac asks, smug. Little shit gets _one_ phone number– “Were they guys? Boy-baristas?”

“Baristbros!” Scott cheers.

Stiles snickers into Derek’s leg. “ _Dude_.”

“How far away are you?” Derek asks, but it’s more like a demand. Ah, well, they’re used to it.

“About thirty minutes,” Scott tells them. “We’ll be there in no time.”

“Yo, a Dave and Busters!”

“No Dave and Busters without Stiles!” Stiles cries. “It’s actually illegal to go without me, I will _cry_.”

“Don’t make him cry, he’s an ugly crier.” Scott says.

Derek puts his lips to one side. Stiles hitches a breath, voice betrayed. _“Bro._ ”

“Just get here soon,” Derek orders. “We don’t have a car, and I have a bad feeling about that witch. I don’t want to run into her again.”

.

They run into the witch again.

It’s not their fault, okay? Two greasy teens with joints and a frankly enormous bong come behind the Blockbuster when Stiles had been trying to make Derek laugh and Derek had been using his concentration not to, and Derek had panicked and run into the woods, dragging Stiles behind him as Stiles waved his arms and shouted “ _You didn’t see anything_ ”.

Derek had kept running, because he was like that and okay, he didn’t want to be arrested for kidnapping or stealing a car or breaking the Starbucks bathroom door, and he had ran with Stiles trailing behind him for nearly a mile before launching into a clearing that the witch just _happened_ to be in building a scary-looking giant circle structure, and it just wasn’t _fair_.

“Aw, this just isn’t fair,” Stiles whines behind him.

The witch looks at them and they look at the witch and then she _smiles_ , god damn, they are so fucked.

“I thought I was pretty hidden in here,” the witch muses, standing up from where she was placing a rock covered in, god, was that blood? “But you two seem to have a…knack for finding trouble.”

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault!” Stiles flails, and both Derek and the witch look at him. “I swallowed a magnet when I was a kid, totally harmless, but my dad couldn’t afford the surgery to get it out, so now it all just comes to me.”

The witch blinks. She looks confused and perturbed enough to be speechless for a moment, so Derek takes advantage. “You hit him with a spell, he keeps falling asleep, and you’re going to fix it.”

“Oh, the sleep spell?” The witch breaks out in a grin. “How cute. Not too harmful.”

“You haven’t seen the way I sleep.”

“Well, to each his own,” the witch shrugs. She reaches into the satchel she’s wearing and pulls out a small stone, the same blue color as the spell that hit Stiles’ head. “Just break this, honey, and it’ll go away, nice and easy.”

She goes to walk toward Stiles, but Derek motions her to stop. “Toss it here,” he orders. “You don’t get to come any closer.”

“Aw, did I bruise the little werewolf’s ego?” She gives him the kindergartner voice, and it makes him bristle. “Fine. Here.”

She tosses the stone high, and Derek sticks out a hand to catch it. Just as he does, Stiles shouts behind him; Derek catches the stone and rolls out of the way of the spell the witch had blasted at him. Stiles flings himself behind a rock and Derek somersaults, rolling to his feet to take cover behind a tree. The witch comes toward him, shooting spells this way and that by him. Derek is just about to make a break for it when Stiles shouts his name. Derek comes out from behind the tree to see Stiles clinging to the witch’s back, spindly legs wrapped around her midsection and arms covering her face in some twisted piggyback. Derek takes advantage of Stiles’ weird tactic to run toward a rock jutting out of the ground. The witch throws Stiles off of her, and he rolls on the dirt. He cries out in pain, holding his wrist, but springs to his feet nonetheless. The witch makes eye contact and growls just as Derek raises the blue stone up and smashes it against the rock, sending shards flying.

Stiles collapses to the ground.

Derek stares at Stiles, and then the witch, who is grimacing. She takes a step toward him, knee faltering a little.

Derek _roars_.

He tackles her to the ground, tumbling away from Stiles’ unconscious body. He swipes her face with his claws, and she screams in rage, kicking him off of her so that she can access her bag. He dodges a few spells as he approaches again, and manages to catch her in the leg before she backhands him, and then hits him with a rock held in her other hand. Derek feels blood catch and ooze down his cheekbone. He tears her shirt, and she presses her palms to his chest; he feels himself propelled backward by a simple buffer spell. He crashes down on his ass but picks himself up again, continuing the stare-off.

“You know,” she coughs. “I don’t usually use lethal spells, but I think I could make an exception for a werewolf.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Derek remarks, smirking.

The witch blinks. “Of course it’s a bad thing! Your kind–”

She’s cut off as a car bursts through the foliage and nails the witch with its front bumper, sending her flying into the rocks. Derek tries not to wince at the blood. Isaac whoops as he and Scott emerge from the car, half smiling, half grimacing. 

“We just saved your _ass_!” Isaac shouts. “That was awesome.”

“How–” Derek stutters. “How did you get here? How did you get the car here?”

Scott shrugs. “I dunno, we kind of just drove it in here.”

Derek processes that for a moment before giving his own shrug. He remembers Stiles with a start and leaps over the rocks and the witch’s body to reach where Stiles had fallen. Isaac and Scott follow him quickly.

“I’ve got a first aid kit in the car,” Scott announces.

“I don’t think we’ll need it,” Derek admits. He kneels beside Stiles and taps his cheek a little bit. Stiles stirs easily, blinking open his eyes.

“Rise and shine, Stilinski, time to smell the guts and gore.” Isaac barks, smiling with a little malice and a little something else.

“Did we win?” Stiles murmurs, propping himself up on his elbow and rubbing his head. 

“Yeah, we did.” Scott grins. “I totally just took a page out of your book and nailed her with the car.”

“Is she dead?”

“One second, I’ll check,” Isaac stands and jogs over to her body, and then back. “Yep. Very dead.”

“Good,” Stiles says, letting Scott and Derek help him up. “Maybe. Gotta give Jackson props then, I guess. Did you bring me pancakes?”

Scott’s face falls. “Oh. No.”

“Curly fries?”

“You’re shit out of luck, Stilinski,” Isaac says, walking back toward the car.

“I can’t believe this.” Stiles pouts. “Take me home. Shotgun!”

“Not a chance.”

“Isaac fucking Lahey,” Stiles kicks the ground, crossing his arms. 

“We called a tow truck to grab the Camaro, though.” Scott tells them, like it’s good news.

“You can have shotgun in there,” Derek elbows Stiles. Stiles gives him a betrayed look.

“What about the body?” Scott asks.

Derek gives him an ‘ _eh_ ’ gesture. “I’ll call somebody.”

“We’re going home now,” Stiles says, getting into the back of the car. “And we’re avoiding the Blockbuster bong gang and getting curly fries, so help me god.”

.

“So I know this is uncharacteristic,” Isaac says, steering Bowser around an incoming giant snowball and bumping Scott’s Yoshi into a misplaced banana. Scott swore. “But I’m kind of worried about Derek.”

“Why?” Scott asks, cutting Stiles’ Princess Peach off. Stiles slams his foot into the carpet in frustration, chewing at his lower lip.

“Oh, I dunno,” Isaac shrugs. “His life just seems more shittastic than usual, is all.”

“Derek Hale? A shittastic life? No,” Stiles kicks up his feet on Scott’s stereo, voice oozing sarcasm. “Those things don’t correlate at all.”

“Yesterday he nearly had a breakdown because all of his eggs broke in the car on the way home from the grocery store.” Bowser knocks Princess Peach off of the cliff, and Isaac ignores Stiles’ groan of _dude_. “Some kid snapped the binding on the book he let Erica borrow for school and he almost kicked her out. This morning he tripped down the stairs going to his car.”

“What?” Scott snorts.

“ _Tripped_ down the stairs?” Stiles asks, snickering to Scott’s guffaw. “Not jumped down the stairs in an alpha werewolf feat? Not brooded down the stairs with massive amounts of manpain?”

“He totally fell down.”

“He didn’t even catch himself?”

“I guess that does count as shittastic,” Scott admits _._

Stiles huffs. “What kind of werewolf trips down the stairs? He’s slacking.”

“I’ve fallen down the stairs.” Scott admits, rubbing the back of his head. Isaac breathes sharply out his nose and Stiles lays a hand on Scott’s shoulder.

“Its okay, man.” he says. “You’re just a fuzzy little puppy, you can’t help it. Derek, though, he was born this way.”

Isaac raises a finger in warning, not tearing his eyes away from the screen. “No Lady Gaga references in my house.”

“This isn’t your house.”

Isaac retaliates by knocking Princess Peach into a snowman. Stiles nearly throws the controller, but then thinks better of it and buries his head in a pillow.

“Seriously, you don’t even live here–“

Princess Peach gets hit with a red shell.

“What the _hell_ ,” Isaac crosses the finish line and Stiles throws his pillow at him. “Alright, I’m done being creamed by werewolves with better dexterity, I’m going home.”

“See ya, bro.” Scott says. Isaac raises a hand in a half-hearted wave.

“Hey, Scott, do you have any enchiladas left in the fridge?” Stiles pokes his head back in the door.

Scott scrunches up his face in thought. “Yeah, I think so. Maybe like four?”

“Alright, I’m raiding your fridge, bye.”

Enchilada in hand, Stiles gets in the Jeep and drives home, chewing contently. His dad isn’t home, so Stiles heads directly up to his room, grabbing the half-full can of Monster on his bureau and sliding on his rolling chair to his desk. He hasn’t had any sleepy-sleepy-let’s-take-an-impromptu-standing-nap episodes since the witch had been killed, but he still needs some caffeine to get him through his all-nighter X-Box live sessions and wikipedia binges. He opens up his laptop and continues reading the recovered semi-illegal files on witchcraft and the differences between witch and druid magic, but like, in real life. That’s still sort of weird. He gets through about four pages about the properties of magic, drawing from nature and drawing from life forces and all that. One was better than the other, according to Deaton. Less damaging. Stiles can see where some people might cross the line, if he’s honest about it. He’s just about to read about the life spans and boundaries of spells when his mind takes a vacation and he finds himself on his bed watching reruns of Buffy on Netflix.

“Aw, Tara, no,” Stiles moans into where he’s biting the corner of his pillow., sprawled out on his stomach. “No-oooh.”

His phone buzzes and he pauses the episode, flipping over so that he’s on his back and his feet are brushing the floor. Scott’s texting him, so like a good best friend, Stiles decides to answer.

**From: SCOTTY MCPUFFBALL :D**

**Dude, I think something could b wrong w Derek**

Stiles tuts and sits up, remembering that oh yeah, he’d actually been doing something. He sits against the headboard and brings his laptop on top of his lap (good laptop, living up to its name), switching tabs back over to his sketchy witch files. He scrolls down to read the page better, and picks up his phone.

**To: SCOTTY MCPUFFBALL :D**

**Why?**

The page talks about druid magic and magical boundaries concerning supernatural creatures, how such spells have a nearly infinitive lifespan unless tampered with by druid hands or sometimes natural forces, blah blah blah…then there are the spells that can effect humans and supernatural creatures. Lethal spells are typically only used by witches, but it seems like any magic-user can use them. Stiles suspects that the main things truly separating druids and witches are method and morality. Most spells are used for strict offense or defense, but some spells just screw with people. Stiles scrubs his face with the back of his hand and feels his phone vibrate against his thigh.

**From: SCOTTY MCPUFFBALL :D**

**Isaac says hes not picking up his phone**

Stiles pulls his lips to one side and opens up a new message, tapping absentmindedly against the side of his computer. Derek is antisocial and seclusive, yes, but he isn’t known to drop everything and not communicate with the pack when they called him. Hell, Derek only ever communicated with the pack and sometimes the plumber. The only reason he wouldn’t answer his puppies would be if he was busy with alpha business or if he’d been kidnapped or something.

Damnit, he’d better not have gotten himself kidnapped or something. _Again._

**To: Manbeard McGee**

**R u dead**

Stiles could deal with being blunt and rude later.

He starts watching Buffy again and doesn’t stop until he’s two episodes past where he was before and he realizes that Derek hasn’t texted him back. Stiles switches tabs again and places the corner of his phone between his teeth, biting lightly in what could be construed as worry. He sends Derek another quick text and then lets Scott know that Derek isn’t responding to him either. Officially stressed, Stiles goes back to reading, his finger tapping increased. Druids tend to stick to the black and white of magic use, but witches could wander over into grey areas, which is why they’re typically marked as bad. Individually created, original spells of a druid or witch don’t follow the rules of things such as mountain ash; each spell’s individual power leaves behind a preserved residue in some form that the individual could construct, which is the source of the spell’s lifespan and can be removed with magic or in some cases brute force. Even if the spell caster is compromised–

Stiles blinks, and in one swift move flips back onto his stomach and practically presses his nose to the screen.

Spell caster.

Compromised.

Spell.

Grey areas.

_Screw with people_.

“Ughhhhhh,” Stiles moans, loudly. He takes a deep breath. “ _Ughhhhhhhh._ Derek, you idiot.”

They hadn’t even _bothered_ to check the witch’s bag for a stone that could have been for the spell she had hit Derek with, because Stiles didn’t really remember and also dead body, gross. Stiles moans again. The witch and her little bag of goodies are probably at the bottom of the Pacific by now, which is also unfortunate because Stiles is pretty sure magic pollution is a thing.

Stiles is about to try to set his phone on fire by magic, like that could make Derek reply to him, when it rings. It’s a number Stiles doesn’t recognize, but after the incident with Scott and Isaac at a 7-11 in New Mexico he’s learned to just pick up.

“Stiles Stilinski, how may I contribute to your life today?”

“Stiles.” a gruff voice comes through, and Stiles rolls his eyes so hard it _hurts_.

“Derek,” he says back. “Did you know you’re a moron? Where are you?”

“I need help,” Derek admits. “I’m locked in my basement.”

“You’re locked in your–“ Stiles slips his shoes on and grabs his keys, already halfway to his car. “I can’t even. Just break the lock, werewolf man!”

“It’s not my lock.”

“How are you even an upstanding citizen, I just don’t understand.” Stiles pulls out of his driveway and starts driving toward Derek’s loft. “I’m coming. You’re locked in your basement but you can’t answer your phone?”

“I left it upstairs.” Derek explains, and god, Stiles can _hear_ the shrug.

“Then how are you calling me?”

“I have an emergency cell phone in my storage.”

“How _dare_ you be a good planner for the worst case scenario,” Stiles spits. “Wait. You have my number memorized?”

“I don’t rely on technology, Stiles.”

“Sure, pretend you’re all high and mighty, Mr. I-don’t-know-what-an-incognito-window-is. I think we both know who the winner is here.”

Derek balks. “What–you didn’t win anything.”

“Sure I did, I’m the winner and you know it, you just admitted it.” Stiles pauses as Derek sighs. “Isaac was worried about you.”

“Isaac was worried because I’m feeding him dinner tonight and believe it or not, he doesn’t like to impose on other peoples’ houses.”

“That’s not yours.” Stiles says, parking his car outside outside Derek’s building and taking a moment to be thankful that none of his dad’s officers saw him driving while on the phone.

“That’s not mine.” Derek says. “But I owe him.”

“Alright, Fluffy, I’ll be down in a minute,” Stiles exclaims, and then hangs up on him before Derek can react indignantly. He goes down the stairs to the building’s basement three steps at a time and takes in the sight before him when he reaches the storage areas. Derek has his arms crossed as he stares at Stiles, standing behind a closed gate. Stiles laughs as he walks toward him, and Derek gives him a glare.

“Remind me how you became a living iCarly episode?”

“I swung the door open too hard,” Derek explains, almost petulant. “And it came back and closed.”

“And locked.” Stiles finishes.

“And locked.” Derek affirms.

Stiles sighs. “Keys,” he orders. Derek can fit about a quarter of his hand through the holes of the gate, so he hooks the keys on his pointer finger and sticks it through. Stiles snatches them off and sets to work finagling with the lock.

“So,” he stalls, if only to make Derek wait just a little longer. He’s cruel like that. “How’s the Camaro?”

“They can’t repair it,” Derek says, and the news sounds devastating coming out of his mouth. Then Stiles remembers that it probably previously belonged to a member of his family. He swallows the baseball in his throat. “Whatever the witch hit it with…it’s shot.”

“We’ll hold a funeral,” Stiles announces, and Derek huffs. “We can bury the steering wheel, or the engine, or something. We’ll say our eulogies at sunset. Just remember, it’s okay to cry.”

He opens the door, holding it open as Derek walks out and continues right up the stairs. Stiles chases after him after closing the storage door.

“What, no ‘thank you’?” Stiles asks. “No ‘Stiles, my savior, comer to my call’? Okay, no, wait, that sounds weird–”

“Thanks.” Derek mutters, opening the door to his loft. Stiles clutches his chest.

“I’m touched.”

Stiles looks around the loft and frowns. On a table near the door is a stack of mail, and he sifts through it as Derek goes to the fridge and curses as something falls out when he opens it. Stiles cringes when he looks at both scenes. It’s as if a bill for everything Derek has broken ever has come this week, plus just a lot of junk mail, _god_ , are those taxes?

Stiles turns and sees Derek sitting on his couch, angrily eating cereal. Can one eat cereal angrily? Stiles doesn’t think that’s a correct emotion to express whilst eating cereal. It’s probably Wheaties or something.

“Okay, mister.” Stiles points a finger at Derek’s face and walks over to him. Derek quirks an eyebrow at him, still chewing and emoting displeasure. “Intervention time. You were cursed by the witch, too, and we didn’t do anything about it, and it doesn’t go away when she dies, so we have to do something about it before you stab someone’s stuffed animal.”

Derek swallows and furrows his eyebrows even _more_. “Stiles–”

He goes to stand up, and his knee knocks against his bowl of cereal, sending it all onto the floor and his left thigh. Derek makes a frustrated noise and picks up the bowl.

“See? That!” Stiles points at the milk stain on Derek’s jeans. “That’s the curse!”

“What’s the curse, Stiles?” Derek asks, voice biting. “The curse of the unsteady cereal bowl?”

“No!” Stiles shouts, and he has to cover his forehead with his hand for a second. “She inflicted you with the curse of the _struggle_!”

“The struggle.” Derek deadpans, bowl in hand.

“And it’s _real_.” Stiles gestures to the mail, and then to the fridge, and then to the broken stair on the spiral staircase because seriously, how did that happen? “She hit you with a spell that ensures that you can’t have nice things!”

“It’s not like I’m dying, Stiles, recently things have just been a little,” Derek stops, something akin to realization dawning on his face. “…inconvenient.”

“Okay, who gives someone a curse of inconvenience, that’s just rude.” Stiles says. Derek blinks. “Luckily, as I have recently graduated to a solid 5 magic, I can fix it.”

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. Stiles gives him jazz hands. “You can?”

“Sure I can,” Stiles moves past Derek, grabbing the bowl out of his hands. “Sit down, I’m going to raid your spice cabinet.”

Stiles situates Derek, himself, and his bowl of magical things (plus cinnamon, because it smells nice) in the center of the loft on top of the one threadbare blanket Derek seems to own. Stiles rubs his hands together and orders Derek to sit on the floor criss-cross-applesauce; he doesn’t tell him that it just makes him feel calmer. 

“Am I going to hallucinate?” Derek asks.

“No, Derek, I’m not going to make you _high_ ,” Stiles jeers. “If this works correctly, it’ll tap into the magic of the residue left behind by the spell and break its bind to you.”

“If it doesn’t work correctly?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Stiles gestures vaguely. “Something might go boom.”

Derek watches intently as Stiles works, his hands hovering over the bowl of natural ingredients as the sun set outside, making the loft increasingly darker and darker. Stiles doesn’t say a word aloud the entire time, just focuses and occasionally mouths things to himself. After the loft has just gone completely dark, Stiles does one last movement and drops something into the bowl (which is a salad bowl. Now it’s a magic bowl). The contents inside flare up in a strange light that’s not fire but is the same lurid orange as the spell that hit Derek. Stiles and Derek stare at each other over the illumination, and Derek feels something–maybe two somethings–rush through his body. The light goes down, leaving the ingredients an ash spread evenly across the bowl’s whole inner surface, and Stiles reaches over the bowl just as Derek moves forward, grabbing the collar of his henley and pressing his lips to Derek’s. Or Derek’s to Stiles’.

They won’t really be able to claim that the other kissed them first.

“…was that part of the spell?” Derek asks quietly, still close to Stiles. He slips and his hand slides into the bowl, tipping it over. Stiles laughs.

“Oh, yeah, didn’t I tell you?” he jokes. “The key to the magic is all in the kiss. Won’t work otherwise. My lips are chock-full of spark. Wow, okay, that was really lame. Spark jokes. I–”

“I think it’s working,” Derek says, and then kisses him again, which Stiles doesn’t disagree with, but he can totally say now that Derek definitely kissed him second.

“ _Godamnit_.”

They pull away and look toward the door of the loft to see Isaac standing there, arms crossed and fists clenched. Stiles wipes a hand on his shirt and falls back on his butt. Isaac runs a hand through his hair, seething.

“I come here for tacos and get you morons _making_ _out,”_ he complains. “I’m literally third wheeling everywhere, and _you_ told Sophie the cute subway girl I have herpes.” Isaac points accusingly at Stiles, and then points at Derek. “You. Make me tacos.”

Stiles gives a shit-eating grin. “I like tacos.”

.

“We are gathered here today to honor the life of Derek Hale’s muscle car, a 2010 Chevrolet Camaro that we all held somewhat near and dear to our hearts. Today we put it and its spirit to rest, its presence represented by this bent separated piece of its carburetor. We do so with the absence of two friends, because Allison is still touchy with all y’all and said she’d pass, and Lydia said, and I quote, ‘this is the stupidest idea you’ve ever come up with, no’. Jackson is not my friend.

I went through some times in this car, mostly with Derek, because it’s Derek’s car. I was there when it met its untimely death. I was unconscious, sure, but I was there. We drove into the woods with it, like, straight into the woods. It was crazy. Uh. I slept in it. Not like, sleeping with someone, I slept for like two hours, like slept slept, because my sleep patterns were drastically fucked up by a witch–what I mean to say is that Derek cared for the car, and it served its community well. I’ll make it a medal. The purple heart for werewolves.”

Stiles threw some dirt in the small hole he had dug with a trowel for the small piece of metal they had been able to get of the Camaro. He stepped back and clasped a hand on Derek’s shoulder, who nodded. Stiles looked at the pack, gesturing. “Isaac?”

“What? God,” Isaac shuffled forward, hands shoved in his pockets. “Um. Derek drove me to school in this sometimes. It was a pretty sick car. I once told Clarissa Hamilton that is was mine, and she thought it was cool, so. Thanks, I guess. I still had to go to Oregon to save your owner’s asses.”

“You’re talking to a car,” Stiles says slowly, and Isaac flips him off.

Scott steps forward. “Yeah, what Stiles said, minus that personal anecdote. It was all kind of a personal anecdote. Uh, I don’t think I ever drove in this car. You know, it looks pretty cool, but my mom always says that cars like that get you into accidents, and that she doesn’t want to have to deal with you in the emergency room, any of the werewolves, so, yeah. She says to get a Toyota or something.”

“Thanks, Scott.” Stiles nods. “Erica?”

“Derek is always kind of a douche, but at least with this car, he had a reason. Now what is he going to do? I mean, sure, he can continue going around brooding and being a grump and yelling at his betas for unjustified reasons like breaking his precious book or having sex on his couch, but now without the Camaro, no one will take him seriously, not even the soccer moms with cougar boners–”

“I get it, Erica.” Derek muttered, crossing his arms. She winked at him.

“It will be missed.”

“I always thought it was compensating for something,” Boyd announces. “But now it’s dead, and nothing’s changed. So there’s that.”

Isaac tosses in his handful of dirt and walks back toward where they parked their cars in the reserve. “I’m going home.”

“Same.” Erica gives them a peace sign and tosses in her dirt, following Isaac. Boyd copies them and trails behind.

“Wait up, guys, I’m your ride!” Scott cries, haphazardly throwing in his handful and running after them. Stiles takes his trowel and bends down to fill in the remainder of the tiny grave, marking it with a rock that has a car drawn on it with Sharpie.

“This was a terrible idea,” Derek tells him as he stands up.

“Yeah, but now we get to go car shopping!” Stiles announces, jingling his keys and walking toward the Jeep. “Isaac’s fragile, let’s go with something family friendly.”

Derek laughs a little. Stiles takes it as a yes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The author would like to state that in real life circumstances, in the case of maneuvering a car through forests, she does not in fact endorse "just driving it in there".
> 
> hey, come hang out with me on tumblr ––> dude-you-still-got-me


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